


/and i hope you die

by Pearly_Pornography



Category: Moral Orel
Genre: Asphyxiation, Assisted Suicide, Character Death, Drunk Sex, F/M, Misogyny, Necrophilia, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-04-07 02:02:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19075225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pearly_Pornography/pseuds/Pearly_Pornography
Summary: What were you supposed to say? 'Sorry, kids, I accidentally killed your mother in bed'.It wasn't an accident at all.





	/and i hope you die

Standing with this mess, you realize why you and your wife never fuck anymore.

Flashback to an hour ago. You're sitting in your bed, alone, on your side of the black screen. Clutching a glass of scotch with ice, slinging it back, same old same old. And then suddenly the wife came up behind you looking a sweaty mess. Maybe it was something about you, the fact that she hadn't been that visibly aroused in years. Suddenly she crawled on top of you and undid your belt, brow tight-knit in determination.

"Choke me."

The leather held her throat like it was meant to be there, destined to cling to her eggshell-white skin. God knows, in a town like Moralton, there were plenty of uppity broads who could lose a little air. Maybe Nurse Bendy, that skinny whore. You could probably snap her in half just by dreaming about it.

But this was about your wife, and she was the biggest cunt of them all, for sure. The later years were approaching, and there was nothing appealing to you about her fat rolls or sagging tits that fed a child twice-over. Or, for that matter, her hairy lump of a vagina that, just from your perspective, looked like it had seen a whole football team at once. She'd had it checked out, and checked out, and the doctor probably fucked her. Scratches and markings danced along her inner thighs. Just how long had she been trying to pleasure herself? And how, for that matter?

There was no foreplay. Neither of you needed it, she already walked in wet with discharge and blood. Even if she was as dry as sandpaper, you'd have gone in raw and unforgiving because she deserved it. Somehow she felt just as good as she did when you were younger. You thought of that cumslut that was Doughy's mom, she was probably tight enough to tug the pin out of a grenade with just her cooze. But Bloberta's insides were alive, and they were familiar, and comfortable, as if you were returning to the womb from whence you came. Swimming in amniotic fluid and curling up into the egg sac you missed so dearly. 

The end of the belt was meant only for your hand. You held up your pants with it, you beat your son with it, you'd tried to hang yourself once or twice with it. There were the most minuscule of never-leaving marks from where you'd clutched it so tightly. It wrung around your wife's neck and snapped tight, her mouth fell open in these weak little gasps and her pussy muscles tensed in a way that made you feel absolutely prom-night-giddy. 

"Harder," she begged, "choke me harder." You pushed down against the buckle and ridges appeared where the skin was pinched beneath the deep leather -- and it was the real kind, the sort you get from skinning animals. The soul of whatever deer or cow that had to die for it was probably dancing around your bed gaily as you used its flesh to choke out your beloved, the woman you'd made a child with -- nay,  _two_. The little bed shook from how violent you were, how violent you  _felt_ , tipsy, you wanted to grab her by the legs and crack her head through the window. Her face was red, the kind of red you get when you tie a rubber band really tight around one segment of your finger. 

"Co- ck- suh- er-"

You released for a moment, and gave her the always-classic,

"What was that?"

"I said you're a cocksucker." And she meant it too, oh boy, that got you real mad. You undid the belt, lashing it across her face before throwing it aside, and instead grabbed her neck with your own two hands, and you fucked her like it was the only thing God had ever asked of you. Do not be pious, do not be righteous, just fuck your wife. The mark of your whip lay bare across her visage, a faded, rectangular, rosy print of where you'd been. Her teeth gritted, make-up smeared.

"Har- er-" Your knuckles turned white and she stared at you, judgmentally, from her throne of wickedness. It was the ugliest you'd ever seen her, snot bubbling and saliva foaming from the loud, loud holes in her face, and you were in love. You paused, wrists cramping up, and she spoke. "Is that the best you can do? Choke me like you hate me."

"I do hate you."

"And I hate you!" You grabbed hold once more, her voice becoming all frog-sounds. Her face, her voice, it invoked your ire like nothing else. She was all the movies you could never see, all of the ideas you'd never have. All of the punk rock bands you could never listen to. All of the piercings you were never allowed to get. All of the cartoons that your parents banned from the household before you were even born. Every single thing, and then some, she was a mish-mash of unattainable things that pissed you off. You fucked into her, but her expression barely changed. How could she look so fucking bored? Dying, spitting, and bored.

"You cunt," you growled like an animal, "you fucking cunt." And she had the gall, the audacity, to smile.

A gross, drooly, wet smile, with buggy eyes and shaky lips. Teary and mucus-covered and grinning like a fucking animal. Why? Why?! "You fat whore!" Her expression didn't change. Your grip went tighter, your hips moved faster. "Why can't you let me have this? Why won't you let me be happy?!" You were shouting, you didn't know why or at what or where but you were so fucking mad. She was smiling more than she did on your wedding. "Stop smiling at me, or I'll,"

You rose one palm and the next moment was a black spot, but you heard a 'crack'. And when you came to, her head was turned to the side, her neck... twisted. Her now-droopy mouth dripped red, and it wasn't wet lipstick. It was blood. Blood spilled from her open maw. You pressed an ear to her breast and heard no heartbeat.

Your stomach dropped.

"Bloberta?" The room was filled with a deafening silence, you pressed two fingers to her neck. No pulse. She was quickly going cold. You called her name again. "Bloberta!" You pulled out from her, and realized you'd poured your seed into her. You stared at your own cum, dripping out of your dead wife. Dead. Every inch of your body ached with lightning bolts. Dead. You'd killed your wife. She... she  _wanted_ you to. She wanted you to kill her, you knew.

A throat full of fireball whiskey didn't do anything to numb the pain, the horror. It was two in the morning, about. In a few hours, Orel would be up for school and he'd come in to say goodbye. He'd ask where breakfast was. Shapey would be waiting in the kitchen for food. What were you supposed to say? 'Sorry, kids, I accidentally killed your mother in bed'.

It wasn't an accident at all. You wanted to kill her, and she wanted to be dead. You buried your head in your hands. It was an assisted suicide, you helped her kill herself. You felt wrong, wrong, horribly wrong. Suddenly she was the Madonna, drowning in a pool of tar, thin and tantalizing. She was as beautiful as when you first met, cold, stiff and spitting urine into the sheets uncontrollably. Another mouthful of alcohol. Maybe this was just some horrible dream. A delusion, caused by your hatred of your wife and your family and your whole world. You opened your mouth to say 'sorry', but you couldn't. You'd be lying.

You curled up beside her. This was the first time you'd slept together in years, and she was freezing cold. She was as sentient as furniture.

Maybe if you fell asleep, you'd wake up and find out you were dreaming.


End file.
